


New Years' at the Heartbreak Hotel

by DinoDina



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Torchwood, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Grief, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Pre-Relationship, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinoDina/pseuds/DinoDina
Summary: Ianto Jones and Jack Harkness, each reeling from a life-changing experience, meet when they're staying in the same hotel over the holidays.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35
Collections: Torchwood Fan Fests: 2020 Holiday Exchange





	New Years' at the Heartbreak Hotel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yorit1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yorit1/gifts).



> For the prompt: a holiday film au where jack meets ianto... I couldn't fit in Jack as a prince, but I hope you like it!! This was really fun!

Already covered with several inches of snow, the pavement was quickly becoming slippery—where people hadn't trampled the snow into icy sheets, it was melting from the streetlights above, and Ianto carefully maneuvered himself around it, dragging his suitcase behind him.

It was a compact black suitcase, the kind he envied several years ago when he'd first come to London. All the rich businessmen had them, and as he worked as a temp in one of Canary Wharf's skyscrapers, he escorted them in and out of the building, helping them find their overpriced cars in the garage, weathering their harsh words, and knowing that if he stuck on this path, he would one day become just like them.

Not a bad future for an estate kid many hours and a whole country away from home. All he'd had to his name had been a shitty flat and a pet rat—it had come _with_ the flat, and on his less mopey days, Ianto had looked at it as a two-for-one special.

Now, he was back in Wales, trudging through the Cardiff snow, in possession of his own suitcase, overpriced suit, and warm overcoat.

The doorman gave Ianto a small bow when he finally entered the hotel, shaking snow out of his hair—damn all the setting mouse he'd put in there to tame the curls—and pulling his gloves off a few feet away from the entrance.

"Shit." The leather had been expensive, but now the warm lining had worn away and his fingers were frozen.

He darted a quick look around to see if anyone had noticed his curse, but the lobby bustled with similarly-cold guests trying to navigate incorrect bookings and awful bosses trying to get them back into the office on Christmas Eve.

Ianto stuffed his gloves into his pocket and determinedly strode forward—possibly flattening some toes in the process. At the reception desk, he gave his best smile to the harried-looking young woman behind it.

"Ianto Jones, reservation for the week?"

"Oh!" She juggled the phone back into place and frantically typed on her old computer. "Mr. Jones?"

"Yes." He nodded. After a moment, he batted his eyelashes—just once, but it had always worked on the people in his old London office. "Booked it last week, bit last-minute."

"Ah... oh, yes, there you are." She studied the reservation. "All payed beforehand. Here's... your key, Mr. Jones, and all drinks in the fridge are charged to the room, the do-not-disturb sign is on the back of the door—please give us a call if it's missing, that's happened sometimes—, the towels are in the cupboard, there's a safe in the closet, and room service runs all night long."

Ianto looked at the key. "Room 613."

"Room 613."

"Right, thank you."

"Oh, and the lift's just to your right."

Ianto followed the receptionist's finger. "Awesome, thank you."

He retreated with the same people-pleasing smile, but once he got into the lift, thankfully alone, if fell and Ianto heaved a deep sigh. He didn't want to be here. Not in the lift, with its shiny silver walls, polished floor buttons, marble floor, and mirrored wall. Not in the hotel, alone the day before Christmas Eve.

When he had been little, they'd had the day off school. Ianto had followed his older sister around, chattering about possible presents, asking about her friends and her teachers and homework. Just for the holidays, Rhiannon had allowed him to do that. She'd put on films and music, and sat with him when it became clear that their dad wasn't coming home from the pub that evening, and that he probably wouldn't be back the next day, either. Their mum had tried, of course, and Ianto remembered years of small but treasured gifts, cookies that were only slightly burned, and Christmas dinners that had clearly come from sympathetic neighbors.

By the time he was a teenager, Ianto had no such illusions about the holiday spirit, though Rhiannon often offered to skip going out with her boyfriend in favor of entertaining him.

Said boyfriend was now her husband, and instead of cheering up her little brother, Rhiannon was now probably wrapping presents for her own children. She had two, now. Ianto knew them from Christmas cards and guilt-tripping phone calls.

He didn't come home often enough, Rhiannon insisted, didn't put effort into connecting with his family anymore. Whatever.

The doors opened with a ding and Ianto led his expensive suitcase out into a sparsely-decorated corridor, muttering the room number to himself until he found it. He didn't want to be here.

But with Lisa gone and a new job already lined up, Ianto couldn't stay in London anymore. There were too many memories—he'd already dragged everything out for long enough, moping around his old flat since May... There had been funeral arrangements to take care of, and Lisa's things to give away, and relatives to appease, and people to avoid. The lease on his new flat started only after the New Year. Until then, the hotel was his home.

Ianto couldn't see Rhiannon even if he tried.

She'd try to hug him, invite him for dinner, introduce the kids, tell him useless platitudes—the same ones his Mum had given when his father had died, no matter that Ianto had little care for the man even when he'd been young—and Ianto _couldn't do it_.

Nothing would be normal, not for a while. Ianto was no longer the guy who'd made it in London. He was _the guy who'd lost his girlfriend, wasn't it just so tragic?_

And it _was_ , of course it was, but they didn't know Lisa.

And everyone was telling him how awful it was to spend the holidays alone, as if he didn't still have friends and family that cared, as if the only reason he was alone was because he was ignoring him. As if he and Lisa had _cared_ about Christmas in the first place. They hadn't. They'd laughed at their office's tacky decorations and stolen mistletoe to use it as an excuse if they got caught while making out at work.

In a word, everything had reminded Ianto of Lisa. And after he had taken care of her affairs and finally convinced everyone that he was a lost cause, Ianto packed up and moved back to Wales. All he had on him was the suitcase, which he and Lisa had once picked out, laughing that they had finally made it; the rest was in a storage space right outside the city.

* * *

Ianto spent Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day staring at his phone, thinking of calling Rhiannon and trying to talk to her, rather than just calling at an inconvenient time and leaving a message. He _had_ done that: "Hi, Rhi. Happy Christmas to you, Johnny, and the kids. I've sent some things in the mail, don't know if they arrived yet, but I'm thinking of you all. Thank you for being so understanding these past few months. Give Mum my love if she comes by."

The hotel lobby was just as crowded as the night before, only now filled with well-dressed guests raving about the restaurant. Reservations needed to be made months in advance, many boasted, especially on Christmas— _look at us, we're so happy and successful and carefree_ —but it was all worth it because the food was _simply divine_ and the atmosphere was _so festive_.

There had been fairy lights on their window last year. Lisa had wanted purple and Ianto had wanted white, and they'd compromised by spending too much money on a color-changing string of them, and taken them down only after Valentine's Day had passed. Three months later, Lisa was dead.

Ianto kept away from the other guests, knowing that his moroseness was contagious. It wasn't their fault he was a sorry and lonely bastard unable to reach out to his family after alienating them in grief; the least he could do was stare at the giant Christmas tree and remember better times.

At least the couches were comfortable. They were arranged in squares, separated into leather and suede, but despite separating the lobby into sections, the arrangement only served to make it look bigger. Ianto felt like he was drowning into his cushion, but in a good way. A fake fire crackled in the hearth and the Christmas tree was tastefully decorated with red and gold baubles. If Ianto thought really hard, he could convince himself it wasn't really a hotel in the city but a cabin somewhere in the country.

He stared at the tree once more and started to count. How had they put up the decorations? Red, red, gold... One, two, three... Did they put the tinsel after the ornaments, which had come after the lights merrily twinkling between the branches?

The only thing that would make the scene even more picture-perfect was for the tree to be real. Alas, the only scent of pine was from the well-placed air fresheners.

That was alright.

This wasn't ideal, and Ianto resolved to get drunk later in the evening just as he had done the night before on Christmas Eve, but it wasn't awful. Here, Ianto didn't feel so grief-stricken and confused. He could be anybody. A young businessman getting away from the job and spending the night in luxury. A millionaire wanting to see how the other half lives. A cow farmer finally spending the sizable inheritance from his socialite grandmother.

* * *

It felt right to spend time alone in his room, but being alone meant being alone with his thoughts, so on Boxing Day, Ianto once more found himself in the lobby.

It was less busy than before. The wide windows behind one of the sitting arrangements showed a deceptively sunny day; Ianto knew that if he even thought of going outside, he would catch a chill. He had brought a book with him, a well-worn copy of _Why Didn't They Ask Evans?_ , and was seventy-three pages deep when the seat next to him dipped down and a subtle fragrance reached him.

He looked up to see the owner of the—frankly amazing—cologne, and saw a man, maybe his age and maybe a bit older, looking right at him.

"Sorry," the man said with a dazzling smile and a harsh American accent, "I couldn't help myself. I thought I was all alone here, but you've been here for a while so I thought I'd say hello. What are you reading?" Ianto lifted the book to show the cover. The man nodded. "Good choice."

"Thanks." Ianto closed the book and placed it beside himself.

"Captain Jack Harkness." The man stuck out a hand that Ianto couldn't help but shake, catching the confident sparkle in his eyes— _Captain_. Of course. True or not, it was a great way to pull people in.

"Ianto Jones."

"My pleasure." Ianto resisted the urge to snort, and in the same breath resisted the urge to check out the Captain. "Please, call me Jack."

Ianto knew that no one was able to read minds other than his grandmother, but nodded nevertheless. "Alright, Jack. You said hello, asked me what I'm reading... What about you?"

"Nothing at the moment." He lifted a hand to show a take-away cup. "Just finishing this coffee."

Ianto wrinkled his nose. "That's not coffee."

Jack took a sip of it and grimaced. "Fair enough. But it's the only thing they have. You'd think, a place as fancy as this, there'd be something good, right?"

Ianto chuckled. "I've learned not to hope for too much with other people's coffee."

Jack lifted an eyebrow. "Are you a snob or an expert?"

"Both."

* * *

Jack walked away from Ianto Jones with a barely-disguised skip in his step. While the man had been obviously handsome—blue eyes, shapely lips, elegant sideburns—he had also turned out to be a great conversation partner.

That was why Jack had originally chosen him. He had been reading, and as anyone knew, a book did not signal intelligence but it did imply a personality. If nothing else, Jack had hoped to get out of the conversation with a new recommendation, but instead now had plans to see Ianto later for dinner.

The Jack of a year ago would have then made plans to see Ianto later that night, as well, preferably in his room, but the Jack of the present couldn't bring himself to offer. All he had left was a room and a battered suitcase, brown, worn with travel, covered in tourist stickers. A bitter reminder of what had just left him but also the only thing to his name.

Jack took the stairs to stave off the excess energy and was only slightly out of breath when he got to his room.

"Hello, 612," he said tiredly, locking the door and toeing off his boots.

Room 612. Jack's home for the foreseeable future. John had taken everything. His wallet, his car, his... Maybe not his _heart_. But part of it. Jack didn't fall fast but he fell hard, and the past few months with John Hart had been wild and unpredictable. Only last week they'd been in South America. Now, he was in Cardiff, and John was probably halfway across the world.

Jack knew they wouldn't see each other again. Maybe they'd cross each other, meet eyes across a rest stop or airport terminal, then turn away and pretend it hadn't happened.

John had taken everything, but he'd been Jack's business partner in a series of lucky endeavors for years, and his lover for almost a year.

John being gone wasn't a sad thing, not really. Not in the way it should have been. But it still felt empty. Jack had never been one for Christmas, but to find himself alone the day before the holiday? It _hurt_. It was unfair. It was stupid and mean and now Jack needed a way back to the States, back to his mother's farm and her unbelievably sad eyes.

After his brother's death, Jack's mother had become a shadow of her former self, and Jack didn't even try to lie to himself about why he traveled around the world. He doubted he would ever be able to face her.

* * *

At dinner, Jack put on his best shirt and made his way to the lobby, where he was blessed with the sight of Ianto in dark jeans and a red sweater, already there and waiting for him. He noted, with a satisfied smile, that Ianto checked him out—then bit back the pride and admitted that he had looked first, and he had done so from behind an overgrown decorative plant.

* * *

He met Ianto for breakfast the next day, now wearing a light shirt that left almost nothing to the imagination. Ianto even paid him a compliment, and Jack dared to brush his hand against Ianto's when they both stood up to put away their plates.

* * *

Evening, once more, was a time to impress, and in preparation for dinner, Jack put on a darker blue shirt that everyone told him brought out his eyes. But when he exited his room, Jack couldn't immediately head for the elevator, because he found himself face-to-face with Ianto, who was coming out of the room across the hall and was dressed in a dark red shirt that really should not have flattered a pale man so much.

Jack went to dinner thoroughly physically excited, but left it grinning, pleased to be escorting Ianto back to his room. They had passed through the small talk and the conversations covering their jobs, hobbies, and interests, and now moved through literature and philosophy; Jack had slipped hints about his doomed romance, and Ianto spoke of a profound loss.

Jack didn't want Ianto to be sad, because after a second look it was so painfully obvious that he was.

Later, alone in his room, Jack thought about Ianto, but the thoughts were no longer filled with lust. He wanted to spend more time with him, to _know_ him, perhaps to chase away some of the shadows that filled Ianto's eyes.

* * *

Jack Harkness was not a superstitious man. That had served him well in the past as he never gave in to panic easily, but it had also allowed him to see past John's red flags.

As the days passed and he spent hours with Ianto either in the lobby or restaurant, Jack felt cautiously optimistic. The New Year was approaching, and he no longer felt the depressing weight of John's departure. Instead, he cautiously looked forward to the future. Ianto had told him about the flat he was moving into after the holiday—if Ianto was making a fresh start, why couldn't Jack?

He quite liked Wakes.

It would be impulsive to pick up his life and place it down in Cardiff, of course. There was his mother to think about, and the shock the transition would give to her system. There were his dreams of continuing to travel. There was Jack's periodic questioning of how serious he really was about the friendship with Ianto. There was his constant physical attraction to Ianto.

New Year's Eve dawned and those problems did not become clearer. Instead, another two were was moving out of the hotel the next day—would he still want to spend time with Jack? Another, less serious question, plagued Jack all through breakfast: he and Ianto were clearly attracted to each other—would they share a kiss and attempt to speed past the friendship into something more?

* * *

Jack didn't broach the subject of a New Year's Kiss with Ianto over breakfast. Or lunch. Or the snack they shared between lunch and dinner. Or dinner itself.

He needed to figure out a way to say: "Do you want to kiss me later? Not now, but it's a tradition, and I think you're really great and I want to kiss you and do it more and more often, but I know you're grieving and I'm an emotional mess, so maybe we shouldn't rush into anything, but your lips are really pretty."

It wasn't something covered in the self-help books in the hotel's small bookstore.

* * *

Ianto hadn't talked to someone like he talked to Jack since Lisa's death had finally sunk in. He'd retreated into himself, shut himself in and up, and although the grief was still just as sharp as before, he was finally thinking of something else. The sun and the way it shone on the snow that still covered the streets. The Christmas tree and its assorted baubles. The books he and Jack discussed. The people that passed them on the other side of the window.

Lisa was still gone, but Ianto was just now beginning to feel that he _wasn't_.

It wasn't Jack specifically, but it was Jack who had approached him and given him a chance, and Ianto finally felt human. He would move into his new flat tomorrow and start his new job several days later.

His stay at the hotel was coming to an end, but it wasn't over yet, and Ianto woke up on New Year's Eve excited at the prospect of celebrating it with Jack.

_Maybe…_

Ianto shook the thought away. He wasn't ready for a New Year's Kiss. He wanted one, he really wanted one, and he wanted it with _Jack_ , but how could he possibly bring up the subject?

They flirted and the touches they shared were now calculated brushes of fingers and falsely casual shoulder bumps.

Ianto couldn't even begin to figure out how to say: "Do you want to kiss me later? Not now, but it's a tradition and I really want to do it with you. I think you're really great and I think that we could try a relationship, but I'm not ready yet for that, and I don't think you are either. But I want to just try it."

* * *

Ianto met Jack in the corridor between their rooms. He had chosen his best suit for the hotel's New Year's celebration, paired with a red shirt—remembering Jack's appreciation of the color-and a striped tie. He was impressed to see Jack dressed similarly, the dark blue of his shit bringing out his eyes.

Ianto smiled and walked with Jack side by side to the lift. Even if they didn't kiss, the evening was going to be wonderful.

They shared a round table for two, sitting across each other over a starched white tablecloth and a small centerpiece made up of streamers and glitter. Conversation flowed easily and the hired band played mellow music, but whenever Ianto opened his mouth to ask about midnight, the words stuck in his throat and something else came out instead.

* * *

Jack was enjoying himself immensely. The music was just loud enough to be heard without disrupting the conversations while still being perfectly danceable.

Jack finished his wine and stood. "Come on."

Ianto gave him a confused look.

Jack offered his hand. "Let's dance."

Ianto's eyes darted to the side—Jack's heart began to fall—and then he smiled. "Alright."

The chandelier above them caused light to dance across the room and catch in Ianto's eyes; the band grew louder and faster but never rose above a comfortable swing; Ianto talked and stayed in step with Jack; and then the large grandfather clock in the front of the ballroom struck twelve, and Jack realized that had hadn't asked Ianto about the kiss, and the moment dragged on, seemed to be ending, because the minute had ended…

And Jack met Ianto halfway into the kiss. They stopped spinning but didn't stop holding each other.

"Happy new year."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, happy holidays, and Happy New Year!!


End file.
